San Nicholas

we climbed higher and higher
leaving the world behind
you joked about my short legs
as they tread the cobblestone
upwards to anywhere and nowhere
you stopped at El Gato for la cerveza
and we rested in the sun to drink
strangers sharing a bottle until
it was time again to walk further
you stopped to ask an older waitress
for directions to San Nicholas
and told me everyone loved her
for all the right reasons
we sang our favorite song
and laughed, the sweat heavy
underneath my long hair
from more nervousness than heat
we reached the highest point
next to a tall white tower
and sat to admire the view before us
two souls reunited in space and time
ascended into our heaven
time stood still
and the universe rested

Granada Moon

Window looks north
almost a full moon
two buses and a dream
will take me there

but tonight isn't a dream
and we're alone in this city
ancient, like our souls
meant to meet and
be for the night
under a Granada moon.

The Storm

The box fan is about as useless as he is
as it blows around the sticky air in my room
filled with layers of dust from summers passed
needing to be cleaned
needing to be cleaned...

Too fucking hot to fall asleep
so I lay awake and wonder
where is the storm they called for
why are there flashes of lightening
but no thunder
or
rain

just the same ambiguous promises
and the smell of shit that curdles
the humidity of this hellhole.

Stripped down to nothing to stay cool
No clothes, no blankets and even
no dignity just darkness
heat and
betrayal.

I’m no fucking meteorologist
but I can predict a storm better than most
once lightening flashes
then you start counting
then you start counting…

Every

There is a coward behind every soldier
A rapist behind every priest
A savant behind every scholar
A criminal behind every officer
A bachelor behind every groom
A lie behind every promise
Bullshit behind every bouquet
Pornography behind every masterpiece
Tyranny behind every democracy
Blood behind every religion
A fist behind every handshake
A sword behind every pen
A boy behind every man
A coward behind every man
A rapist behind every man
A savant behind every man
A criminal behind every man
A bachelor behind every man
A liar behind every man…

$3.75

$3.75

I hate being the one serving you coffee
the pepper, bacon and American omelet
with white toast and a large orange juice.
The ketchup stain on my apron
and the sweat on my forehead
make me seem too pathetic to be
considered worthy of eye contact.


You sit there in your suit and tie
talking business, politics and gossip
from the last town council meeting,
and that woman refilling your cup
pocketing your $3.75 tip
will one day be the woman
who ruins your marriage
your mayoral legacy
and your political reputation.


I smile at this thought
refill your cup of coffee
and you think I’m smiling
at you.

Resolution

I'm not really going to hell after all. Somewhere between heaven and hell is a place for those of us who wander in a steady flow of illusion, wrong directions and uncertainty. That place is called life.

How wonderful it would be to carry out life on a reservation. Rather than a government issued plot of disparaged land rationed out of pity by the ignorant ancestors of those who stole it in the first place, I'm speaking metaphorically of course and of something far more grand. This reservation is purely a mental state, one that toes the line between reality and psychosis, guaranteeing an imaginary yet safe haven for the ill-fated acute consciousness of my existence. To pine away for the truly impossible is more logical to me than holding out for an unlikely probability. At least in the impossibility, there is no disappointment. There is only a constant hum of a never ending melody and a dream never awoken from.

You may brand me a rationalist, where knowledge is based upon pure reason alone, without any empirical evidence or experience needed for verification. Yet I am not claiming these mental sanctuaries offer any source of truth. They simply provide me with the ability to persist within the real world. Yet what is this "real world" I am speaking so nonchalantly of? I could pontificate tediously about theories of the empiricists and their theories of reality, attempting to reconcile Berkeley from Locke and Kant from Hume, yet I will spare my typical, intellectually elitist sermon as it serves no purpose to the current situation at hand. That situation being an intense realization that I feel more contentment inside my mind, my thoughts and my dreams than I do in the arms of another or in the presence of others. Should fate give me the brief exhilaration of experience, I would be a fool not to accept it. Yet such a gift is not enduring, as it is usually incompatible with the world if it should be fancied by my conscious. Soon enough, it fades back into the monotonous humdrum, visible only on some nights, yet always kept at arms length. Somehow I keep allowing it to visit and in my insanity, I keep expecting different results.

How much spite is necessary to abolish this madness before I wither into complete disgrace? An ounce, I suppose would give a stubborn being like myself enough will power to carry through with such resolution. And how comfortable it will be to find solidarity in the fictional creations of my mind, rather than allow real people to ruin my soul.

MoMA

We pondered the clocks in the Persistence of Memory
between walls satisfied with paintings.
Among sculptures suspended from ceilings
fountains sprayed drops of sunshine
splattering rainbows on silhouettes.

We were more inspired by each other.
Alone and invisible in a sea of strangers,
we were lost in a sculpture garden of secrets
where the sun still shone promise on our love,
reflecting our imaginary iridescence.

Bathed in a room of glowing yellow light
Eliasson turned us into monochrome
blending our various skin shades to one.
Ascending the crowded escalator your kiss
conceived more than God could on any Sistine ceiling.

There were a thousand faces to witness us
though their judgment, scorn and misunderstanding
were reserved for the paintings while
we blended into the Garden of Earthly Delights.

Between this gallery and the tallest buildings,
in a city of insomnia, we would have lost ourselves
and abandoned our old life to become
remembered as the incarnation of beauty,
invisible in the refuge of the museum.

The harmony of our lips,
the symmetry of our souls,
the enigma of our embrace,
the elegance of our portrait all
were painted on eternity’s canvas.

They will preserve us in a sculpture
and our juxtaposition will bewilder.
The post-modernists will bow and pray
to the paradox of our existence.

My masterpiece, I’ll discover you again,
amongst the Water Lilies and Starry Night,
waiting for my return to the museum,
waiting for our chance to be more
than just a simple work of art.